The Ho Ho Ho Ho Affair
by GM
Summary: Napoleon finds trouble at the North Pole


THE _HO‑HO‑HO-HO AFFAIR_

by 

Gina Martin

_December 1969_

________________________________________________________________

Sound and touch were the first two sensations he recognized.  The two merged into one as the howling, screeching wind pierced through his body and filled him with a numbing cold.  He tried to open his eyes but couldn't since lashes were frozen to lashes.  Automatically, he moved his right hand to wipe away the ice and instantly regretted the action.  A sharp pain in his arm told him a bone was broken.

After these initial physical failures, Napoleon Solo fell back on his mental abilities.  Several moments of concentration brought returned memory of how he came to be injured and freezing to death in the Arctic Circle in December.

Illya and he had been assigned to investigate a possible THRUSH satrap at the North Pole.  The base had proved all too real and formidable for two UNCLE agents.  The operatives had fled for their lives in a mad snowmobile chase across frozen tundra.  By common consent Illya, the cold‑climate expert, had gone for UNCLE reinforcements and Solo had led the THRUSH pack on a wild, diversionary race across the snow‑packed glaciers, toward the nearest civilization.  The last thing Solo remembered was a stunning explosion, then blackness.

Curiosity supplied the necessary impetus for Solo to move a stiff left arm and gradually, painstakingly and painfully, wipe the caked ice from his face.  He opened his eyes to blindingly excruciating sunlight reflected off ice.  His goggles lay in the snow, shattered from the explosion. Several jagged tears in the material ventilated his insulated coat.  The snowmobile, and several THRUSH bodies, were in pieces around him.  All had somehow landed at the bottom of a frosty ravine.

Solo slowly took stock of his injuries.  Aside from the broken arm, cuts and bruises seemed the only wounds.  He came carefully to his feet and made a half‑hearted attempt to climb up the steep, hard‑packed ice walls of the white abyss.  He could climb up only a few feet before he slid back down again.  Exhausted, he finally gave up the useless pursuit.

Unable to discern his exact location, he picked a direction and started walking.  He depended on luck to point him the right way.  It didn't matter much anyway.  Against the blinding whiteness and inundating snow visibility was minimal.  He could last only a few hours in the intense cold.  Already his toes were numb and his exposed skin was freeze‑burned and cracked from the numbing wind.

He trudged forward, forcing himself to take each painful step.  Almost snow‑blind, he stumbled on for interminable minutes that melded into centuries of timeless footsteps.  Several times he collapsed against the ravine wall, and each time pulled himself out of the entrenching flurries and continued.  The fear of failure was a powerful motivation for the Chief Enforcement Agent and he refused to allow fatigue and cold to overcome his resolve.  He was also driven on by curiosity about his partner.  He wanted to know Illya had made it to safety ‑‑ had made this sacrifice worthwhile ‑‑ before he surrendered to the elements.

His feet were now too cold to walk and he stumbled more than he stayed on his feet.  At the last, Solo crawled on his elbows for a few feet until he no longer had the strength to move at all.  He lay on his back, staring at the small patch of sky visible above the chasm walls.  Napoleon knew he was only moments away from unconsciousness, then death.  His stubborn irritation at how things had turned out was the last thing he could think of.  He hated the cold.  He didn't want to end it all like this . . . .

***

Abundant sounds filtered into his consciousness.  Napoleon heard a strange, alien noise that niggled at the edge of his awareness and beckoned his return to wakefulness.

The neatherworld between unconsciousness and alertness was a limbo he had visited many times.  He had learned to easily distinguish between lucid dreaming and reality; between semi‑conscious illusions and factual memories.

This time he couldn't discern between desire‑dreaming and fact.  Solo expected to be dead and classified the sounds as the voices of angels; the bells of a heavenly choir, the hands of St. Peter's helpers, the warmth of his eternal resting place.

Layer by layer this gossamer fantasy unraveled.  Cloudy tendrils of illusion peeled away, as each sound became more distinct, and more confusing.  Solo recognized the noise as voices of people accentuated by the gentle jingle of bells.

Summoning his resolve he opened his eyes.  He found himself bundled in the back of a large sleigh harnessed to a string of ‑‑ reindeer?  Bags of toys were propped around him.  Napoleon blinked and stared at the ridiculous scene that refused to fade away like any other weird dream.

He was sure he was awake.  The glacial air, the sound of his chattering teeth, his frozen body confirmed he was still among the living, still in the real world.  The agent's perplexed mind could not comprehend the unbelievable circumstances.  The moment was pushed into the realm of absurdity when several green‑garbed elves ‑‑ complete with bells on the tips of their pointed slippers ‑‑ giggled at Napoleon. 

Having survived countless dangers and perils, Solo could not endure being the object of amusement for a gaggle of laughing elves.  His mind retreated into blessed blackness, but not before he ‑‑ imagined? ‑‑ someone's deep chuckle and a rich voice asked what he wanted for Christmas.  His automatic response was to incoherently mutter two simple requests.

***

Solo's next conscious awareness was the vibrating sound of rotor blades.  It was a comforting, familiar sound he could easily classify.  It brought instant association with the pleasant images of rescue and safety.  It meant his lone struggle for survival was over, his well being delegated to experts who could revive his frigid body to working order again.

Napoleon kept his eyes closed for several more minutes, savoring the comfort of warmth and protection.  He was inside a chopper, bundled within thermal blankets and a sense of well being. He felt the presence of someone (he suspected he knew who) nearby, but was reluctant to open his eyes yet.  The acute feelings of relief and security were keenly appreciated and savored by the agent who had mentally accepted death on the icy Arctic wilderness.

A hand gently shook his shoulder.  

"Napoleon?"

Solo smiled even though it hurt his snow‑blistered lips.  He opened his eyes, unsurprised that Illya was with him.

"Don't you ever get tired of the cold?" he quipped lightly.

"I get tired of rescuing you," the Russian responded with hints of irritation and concern mingled into the serious reply.

"It keeps you in practice," Solo answered cheerfully in over‑compensation for his jarred nerves.  The vivid memory with this most recent narrow escape from death was already muffled in a cocoon of optimism.  After all, he was alive, and Illya had once again performed a nick‑of‑time rescue.  At the moment, life looked very good to him.

"I could do with less practice," was Kuryakin's sober response, still refusing to join in the usual banter.  "You cut it much too close this time, my friend."

"Not by choice," Solo assured, determined his high spirits would not be dampened by the Russian's somberness, though he was touched by his partner's concern.  "But you made it in time anyway."

Kuryakin shook his head.  "Not I."  At Solo's questioning look he continued.  "We found you just a few miles from base camp.  Someone had bundled you in thermal blankets and left you in a tent."

Solo's mouth dropped open.  "Wha ‑‑ " he stammered.  Images came unbidden; elves, toys, reindeer.  He gasped, then snapped his mouth closed.  But Kuryakin had already interpreted the recognition on Solo's face.

"What happened?"

Solo shook his head.  "You won't believe me."

"Try me," Kuryakin urged, now much too curious to let it drop.

 Again Solo shook his head.  "I don't think I believe it myself," he laughed nervously.

"Napoleon ‑‑ "  Illya breathed threateningly.

"All right, but don't say I didn't warn you.  And if you repeat this to Waverly I'll deny every word."

"Napoleon!"

"Okay, okay." 

Decades had passed since he believed Christmas wishes came true.  Yet, he and his friend were alive ‑‑ the invaluable gifts he prized most.  It didn't matter who had granted those wishes.  The same Christmas wishes he had secretly held in his heart for years.

Overcome by a mischievous sprite, Solo beamed at his partner.  "The truth is I remember waking up in this huge sleigh surrounded by bags of toys and little elves in green costumes."

"Napoleon, I'm warning you --"

"And if you don't wipe that smirk off your face I won't tell you what Santa is giving you for Christmas . . . ."

THE END


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